Cardboard Boxes
by TopHatGirl
Summary: Mike and Sam may share glee, football, and classes together, but they never interact. Don't expect them to;they're in different categories. Thing is though, no one labeled those categories. So you don't know what you'll get if you mix them.Eventual slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: HEY! YOU! YES, YOU! READ ME! Welcome to probably the most unrealistic couples I've ever written. A Sam/Mike fic. This is really an experimental fic, testing my limits and abilities with my writing. But, who knows? This might actually GET SOME REVIEWS. I'm hoping, anyways. Don't expect this to get updated as often, but since two of my other multi-chaps are winding down, I thought I can handle another. Bear with me, and maybe you'll enjoy the crackness of it all.**

**By the way, since this is the first Mike/Sam fic, I get to name them. SANG. ATTENTION TO EVERYONE, THEIR LABEL IS SANG. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Glee.**

Sometime I can fly. When I really try, I'm able to jump, leap, pretty far. Like a bird. That's what they call me at my classes. Wings. Wings Chang. It's a feminine name, but when you're a guy who takes and teaches dance classes at Madame's, you get used to being associated with more 'girly' things. But I shrug it off. Take it all in stride. Go with the flow. Unlike my best friend, Matt, who tends to shy away from any opportunity, I jump in. I drive it.

I started teaching hiphop and ballet classes when I was fifteen. Madame thought I was wonderful, and I was her star pupil. I got paid in free classes, until I turned sixteen, where I was paid 15 dollars per class. After another year, she thought I'd do better in private tutoring. So every day after football, I would teach a different student a different type of dance. I taught Olivia ballet on Mondays. Mich funk on Tuesdays. Neil, a miniature Kurt, a little bit of everything on Wednesdays. I loved it. Every minute of it. Sure, glee was awesome too. I got to be one of the main dancers with Britt. But here? I shined. I shined like the star I am, and not the arrogant star Rachel seems to think she is. I could be myself when I danced. Nothing could touch me. School problems? Out the window. Relationship troubles? Screw that. I could just shine.

So when Sam Evans waltzed, metaphorically, in to the dance studio, asking Madame if there was any available classes, I knew that my escape from reality just got a bit dimmer. Sure, I was being a little extreme. I barely knew the kid outside football and glee. But then that would throw off the whole balance. School and dance has always been separate. What if he was one of those guys who would make fun of me for the nicknames? The point shoes? The leotards? Even if I went with the flow, there's no way I could blend into the crowd if everyone started taunting me with awful names? Was Sam Evans that kind of person?

It was break time for one of the dance classes I took, not taught. And I was overhearing the conversation that was held in Madame's claustrophobic office.

"H-hi, I was interested in taking a class here..." Sam's voice.

"Wonderful! I'm always glad to see males taking an interest in the amazing art of dancing."

"'Kay. Well, it's to help with football, so I need to take a ballet class?"

"Have you ever done ballet before?"

"No..."

Madame started humming, something she always does when she thinks.

"No worries. I know a private tutor who can start you off with the basics. He's an excellent teacher."

"What's his name?"

Pleasedon'tbemepleasedon'tbemepleasedon'tbeme...

"Mike Chang."

I was going to teach Sam Evans ballet.

Joys.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry for this long ass delay. I originally had an entire chapter ready the day after I published the first one, but then I clicked out without saving, and yeah. Arrgh. So it took me forever to get up the energy to rewrite it. But thanks for reviewing!**

I absently stroke the keys of the grand piano resting in the corner of the back room. The back room was specifically for private tutors, where the noise of the other rooms wouldn't reach here. The lights were nicely dim, and it was never too cold. My fingers always itch to play, but I'm always so terrified of being so loud someone would yell at me. Silence is my friend.

"Hello." The word breaks the air, throwing me off guard. I jerk out of the piano bench, whirling around to find Sam Evans awkwardly shuffling his feet back and forth. "You play?" he asks, head jerking towards the piano.

"Nah," I lie.

Remember how I said silence is my friend? Well, awkward silence is my nemesis, plaguing the room.

"So, you're my tutor."

"Yep."

"I didn't know you taught."

"Do you really know anything about me?" It wasn't meant to sound bitter, but I guess it did.

"No, I don't."

More tension.

"Well, let's get started."

It takes 15 minutes to show Sam how to do a simple toe point. He was clumsy, but not Finn clumsy. Afraid to try, clumsy. After noticing how much Sam subtly looked over his shoulder, I realize what's going on. And it pisses me off.

"Goddamn, Sam." That rhymed, awesome. "No one's here! The football team isn't spying on us through cameras, and I won't say a word that you're doing ballet. There's no reason to be ashamed."

"I'm not!" Sam protests.

I sigh. "Okay." This is not going well. "So why are you taking ballet?"

"Coach keeps saying I need to work on my footwork."

"I've noticed."

"You have?"

"Almost everyone on the team has shit footwork."

"Except you."

It catches me off guard.

"Except me."

* * *

The coffee shop at 5pm is strangely empty, except for me. I'm sipping a strong black coffee, waiting for Matt to come. I'm reading Pride & Prejudice & Zombies. Oddly enough, it's helping me pass my English class.

_Elizabeth lifted her skirt, disregarding modesty, and delivered a swift kick to the creature's head, which exploded into a cloud of brittle skin and bone. She, too, fell, and-_

"You are such a nerd," Matt says, interrupting the good part.

"How so?"

"You're reading. In a coffee shop."

I close the book. "Oh, really? Says the dude who once spent all night analyzing how to use mechanics to win Final Fantasy."

"That makes me a geek, not a nerd."

I laugh. Matt orders a frappuchino, because he's a sissy. I tease him about it, every time. Except for today. I just sigh heavily and watch the heavy rain outside.

"You okay?" Matt asks.

"Yeah. But guess what."

"What?"

"Sam, that guy who replaced you when you left, is taking one of my classes."

"Isn't he on the football team?"

"Yep."

"Is he good?"

"Not in the least."

We lapse into a comfortable quiet, the kind we always do. I watch the raindrops land on the windowsill, like tiny spiders as they spill to the bottom. Matt is deep in thought, like usual. The cashier is humming softly, and I'm tapping my feet to imaginary choreography. I take another sip, and know the next conversation piece.

"Has he noticed you yet?" I ask. Matt's face immediately changes from calm to annoyed.

"Of course not. The only man I might even be a smidgen attracted to is the most self centered guy in the whole school," he says.

"How many people are in Dalton?"

"Apparently too many for Kurt Hummel to spot a face in the crowd."

Matt transferred to Dalton at the beginning of the year, sick of being so unnoticed. He was having a great time, and even got up the nerves to tell me he was gay. But when Kurt showed up a few months later, Matt's old crush on him rebooted, and Kurt still hasn't noticed that Matt goes to the same school. And of course Matt is too shy to simply say 'hello'.

"You know my advice," I tell him.

"Yeah, yeah; just start a conversation with him. But I think it would be more satisfactory if he suddenly bumps into me and realizes with utter stupidity that I actually go here."

"Is this what you think of in your spare time?"

Matt takes another sip of his frap, whipped cream smearing over his lips. "Yup."

"Loser."

"Nerd!"

They fall into a chorus of laughter.

Nothing's changed.

* * *

"Mike, Britt, how about you show us some moves?" Schue asks during glee. People laugh, and push my shoulder. I shrug, and Britt and I laugh our way through a hip hop routine. I'm vaguely aware of Sam watching me with some very intense eyes.

* * *

The piano is calling to me again. It whispers. I gently add pressure to one key, and the sound echoes through the room. Vibrating. I press another. And another. Soon, it's a melody of random notes and keys that drift through my mind. It somehow expresses the loud passion that I've been needing lately, instead of the silence.

"So you can play," Sam says. I don't stop playing, just smile.

"I'm Asian, of course I can."

He sits on the floor, and leans his head against the wall. I think he's listening. Relieved he's not taunting me, I continue, pounding against the keys.

Soon, I get lost. The music wraps me in. Sam, too, because I can feel him in there with me, breathing steadily.

The clock interrupts us, reminding me that we're now 10 minutes into the lesson. I sigh, and ubruptly end my little performance. Sam jerks forward, like he's just woken up.

"Whoa..." he says.

"Let's get started."

"Much, much better," I say when he doesn't trip on his face when he tries to do a simple leap.

"Thanks." I toss him a water bottle, and he takes a swig. "Y'know, ballet is more tiring than I thought. And it doesn't even help out my abs."

"Why do you care so much about image?" I ask. Whoa, wait. Was I actually confronting someone about something that was none of my business. This is was so not the Mike Chang way.

"Why do you?" he asks.

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't see you dancing any ballet in glee, only hip hop. Because that's the cool thing."

"Because ballet isn't really a dance you sing to?"

He sighs. "Right. Sorry, I think Rachel's bitchyness is rubbing off on me."

" 's okay."

We both get back up.

"From the top."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Long chapter to make up for my absence!**

The bus ride is never any better than the time before. Or the time before that. It's the same washed up bus driver with overgrown eyebrows. The same hobbling old lady with a cane, muttering under her breath. The college girl with an oversized sweatshirt, drowning in her own endless eyes. Then there's me. The Asian with long legs who plays football and is constantly thinking about dancing. It gives him a high. Just to sniff in the dusty atmosphere of his own little room in the studio; that's where a buzz comes from.

Just like any angsty teen movie, his dad disapproves.

"_There's so much more you can do. Focus on your sports, for example. Continue with the piano," Dr. Chang, PhD tells a young Micheal at age fourteen._

"_But I like dancing, Dad," he protests. _

"_It's not natural!" His father says, face swelling up with red. _

"_It's not natural for a human being to move themselves to music?" he asks._

"_Not for a man it is!"_

My mother usually stood there, her backbone absent, biting her tongue till it bled while I was constantly verbally abused.

I never complain about terrible childhood. I find it pointless and a bit petty. I'm a girl, despite what my dad thinks. I have no clue about fashion or how the hell someone could stand through an ear piercing.

I buried my head in my hands, wishing that everything bad in my life would all go away. My father, school, and these tutoring with Sam included. The college girl leaned across the aisle from her seat, snapping a piece of gum in her ruby red lips.

"Hey, dude. You okay?" she asks, genuine concern lacing her question.

"Just parent troubles. Nothing major," I reply. Her eyes widen, and suddenly, she plops herself next to me.

"Oh, I totally feel you! My mom is on my case all the time. She wanted me to be a doctor, but I wanted to be an actress. She told me,'Katy, you're throwing away your life!'." Her voice went nasally to imitate her mom. "But anyways, I'm here during a semester break. Reconfiguring my life and such." She sighs. "Parents, right?"

"Right," I say awkwardly, my gaze drifting back outside.

"So, hey, I'm Katy, by the way." I snap my attention back to her. "What's yours?"

"Uh, Mike. Mike Chang."

"What do you do on Bus 236, Mike Chang?" she asks.

"I go to a dance studio to teach and learn."

She snaps a bubble again. "On 5th street? Oh my god, I know someone who goes there! My cousin. I'm actually visiting him here. He's really nice. Maybe you know him."

My whole body freezes up, dreading the answer to my next question. "What's his name?"

"Sam Evans."

The bus pulls up a block from my studio. There's another stop right in front of the studio, but if I have to be in the same bus as this girl, I will shoot myself.

"Well, here's my stop! Gotta go!" I squeeze myself past her, and nearly sprint down the aisle.

"But, this isn't 5th-" she calls after me, but I pretend I don't hear, and land on the sidewalk. Walking quickly, I dodge past dog walkers and bushes.

My mind whirled. First of all, why did I always get so worked up about Sam? I doubt he'll tell about my dance lessons. He's okay. Not like a friend, but whatever.

Sam's car is already there when I arrive.

Why so early? We don't start until 4:30.

My watch says 3:42. Shit.

I try to slip in silently to the studio, because I know Madame will bite my head off if she knows I was late to a private session.

I find Sam in the back room, sitting at the piano, humming something under his breath.

"You play?" I ask.

"No."

"Have a tune in your head?"

"Yeah."

"How does it go?"

"Don't know."

"That rhymed."

He sighs. "Yeah."

I sit on the piano bench beside him, gently touching the keys, but never pressing them. Sam is breathing heavily in long shudders, like he's about to cry. Which he won't, because he's the guy who just doesn't cry. "Something wrong?"

"I dumped Quinn because she's been cheating on me." He said it fast, one long sentence strung together like beads.

"Ah. Drama," I say.

"How do you do it?" he asks. I press one key, one note. It rings out, at flinch worthy volume. I sigh. Loudness.

"Do what?" I ask, concentrating on trying to press the keys so softly it comes out as a whisper. But no matter how slowly I tap, it still rings out shouting.

"Stay out of drama. Everyone else in the glee club has a freakin' soap opera as their lives, and they usually break down from the stress daily, including me."

I press another key. Much too loud. "I enjoy silence. I seek it out. I don't meddle in other people's shit. I hear about it, but I don't mess with it. I take my girlfriend on dates, and we have a nice time. She doesn't cheat on me. I hang out with my best friend regularly. See, everyone else literally seeks out the drama. Stay out of the way of other's lives and you dodge the domino effect that is the soap opera."

"Deep, man."

"Yeah," I say, snorting. "I have a lot of time on my hands to think about this, because I don't have to spend two hours crying every night."

"Shut up!" Sam says, shoving my shoulder. We both laugh.

"So you okay about Quinn?"

"Actually, yeah," he says, looking at me. "It's kinda nice being single. No drama. But damn, lonely night tonight."

That's an odd thing to say. Kind of awkward. But instead of being that douche who says 'tmi' or anything, I say, "Come to the coffee shop with me, I'm meeting Matt."

"Matt?"

"Oh yeah! You don't know him! You replaced him after he moved."

"Okay..." he said, raising an eyebrow.

"Anyways, Matt lets out his inner turmoil and we'll listen to you too, because we're secretly really touchy feely."

"Really?"

"Not all the time. Most of the time we argue about video games and comics."

"Oh," he says, relieved.

"Yeah."

"Anyways," he says. "Can we get to the actual lesson? I think I'm getting better..."

* * *

Matt is folding his umbrella up from the rain outside as he enters the coffee shop.

"So you want to bet the wind is so strong that this whole place is going to be uprooted?" Matt asks, still focused on shutting the umbrella.

"Hey Matt."

"Hey Mike." He finally manages to put the umbrella away. He looks up, and eyes widen at the sight of Sam sitting there, drinking black coffee. "And friend."

"Matt, this is Sam. Sam, Matt."

"So this is my replacement..." Matt muses, stroking a nonexistent beard and pulling out a chair.

"Sorry?" Sam says meekly.

Matt chuckles. "No need to apologize, dude. I left way before you came. I'm guessing you never even heard of me?"

"No," he says.

"Guess people grieved extensively for me, huh?" he said sarcastically, looking at me.

"Yep, they all weeped for Mute Matt." I take a sip of coffee. "So what's the sitch at Dalton?"

"What's the sitch? Did you just use Kim Possible language?" Sam asks.

"It's all he does. Watch Kim Possible and Avatar and Danny Phantom," Matt says.

"Avatar?" Sam says.

"The cartoon. You know, the Last Airbender?" I ask.

"Oh," he says, disappointed.

"Does this kid actually _like _the blue people movie?" Matt asks.

"What's wrong with Avatar?"

"Well, it basically just stole-"

"ENOUGH!" I say. "Don't get either of you guys started on Avatar. Let's go back to previous topic. What's the _situation _at Dalton?"

Matt eyes Sam suspiciously. "Well..."

"Don't worry, Sam's cool. He won't tell, or judge," I say. "Right?" Sam leans back in his chair.

"Depends. If you're some Neo Nazi undercover, then I'll report you. But other than that, then my lips are sealed."

"Okay," Matt says. "Well, no updates. Kurt still doesn't even notice. But, I have a plan."

"Wait, wait, wait. Can I know what's going on?" Sam asks.

"Matt has a huge crush on Kurt. He's been at Dalton for the whole school year, and when Kurt recently transferred, it freaked him out. But Kurt doesn't even know he's here yet," I say.

"Why doesn't he just say hello?"

"My point exactly."

Matt ignores us. "I like things complicated. So, anyways, I'm going to join Warblers."

"What? Why?" I ask. "I can't be up against you in competition!"

"This is for love, dude. But can I continue?"

"Go ahead."

"You know how Warblers has a stick up their butt during performances, and only really sway?"

"Yeah. Not even close to how Mike and Brittany rock," Sam says. I lower my head, blushing slightly. Slightly!

"Exactly. But I know some moves."

"He's modest," I whisper.

"-And I'm going to teach them how to dance, if they're willing. Then Kurt will notice me even if I have to throw a bucket of ice cold slushie in his face!"

"Or, you could just say hi..." Sam says.

"Oh yeah? Well what's your issue Mr. Perfect?" Matt asks, pointing an accusatory straw at him.

"I just broke up with my girlfriend."

"Who's your girlfriend?"

"Quinn."

Matt chokes on a glob of whipped cream. "Quinn? Quinn Fabray?" He turns to me, and points his straw at my chest. "You need to keep me up to date on this stuff so I won't be so lost."

"Trust me, I barely keep up with it myself," I say.

"So that's it?" Matt asks, attention back to Sam. "YOU broke up with HER. You're a free man. You could like, make out with a girl without having to pray first."

"I guess." He sighs, and slumps into his seat.

"This guy needs a video game marathon stat," Matt says.

I nod somberly.

Sam raises an eyebrow. "A what?"

"That's it. He's coming to our Saturday Night Marathons," Matt says, doing his determined fist slam.

"Here we go..."


End file.
